


Five ways Raymond Doyle might have said "I love you" and one he wished he had.

by Squeeful



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeeful/pseuds/Squeeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a many-splendoured thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five ways Raymond Doyle might have said "I love you" and one he wished he had.

At night the silence was dark and smothering. There were no baby's cries and the absence struck Ray as much as his mother's stifled sobs and in his five year old heart he knew that something was horribly wrong. He lay under the covers and wished to a God he would not speak to again for Mama to be happy. It was so cold and he shivered next to his brother in their narrow cot.

Sunrise brought no dawn, only a dull, grey light over the window sill.

He brought her a kitten, a handful of blue fur and tiny, mewling pleas. She cried harder and he didn't know why, but then a man had come and taken him away.

 

* * *

 

Charlie Hall was everything Raymond Doyle was not: tall, handsome, and popular with everyone from the corner grocer to his parents. And at fifteen Ray knew, with the self-centered wisdom of teenagers everywhere, that he didn't need his parents' regard -- not that he had it anyway. But he did want Charlie's.

So when he saw teens from a roving gang of Teds picking on Charlie's youngest sister, he waded in although it was four against one.

He was in hospital for a week.

Charlie never even looked at him. But little Alice's eyes had glowed with gratitude and she'd brought him sweets when the swelling went down.

Years later, if asked, he'll quote a pair of plaits and a bag of toffee for joining the Met.

 

* * *

 

It was supposed to have been an easy pick-up, but all the supposed tos and should haves of their lives could have filled the phone book in small print. So when Bodie zigged when he should have zagged and found himself nose to muzzle with a gun -- Markarov PM, damned Soviets -- it was a flash of indignation that prompted his moue. Simple bad luck.

"Don't move," said the man with a heavy accent. And he didn't.

So there he was in a dock house at midnight with an East German pointing a semi-automatic at his face and...sounded like the start of a bad joke.

While he and his new friend where staging a tableau vivant of Hamilton's last moments, Bodie's partner rounded a corner and spotted them.

Doyle came soaring over the barrels and all he had needed was a flaming sword and outspread wings to complete the picture of an angry Michael. The rush of his jump blew the curls back from his face and in the dim warehouse lights his eyes took on an eery fire. In the face of such destructive beauty, Bodie felt very small and very human.

The avenging angel with his partner's face could fly and fire at the same time and the poor bastard who'd made the bad decision to smuggle guns and point his shooter at Bodie never stood a chance. One, two, three and he fell, crucified with bullets. No absolution for sinners.

Ray stood over the bullet-riddled body and glowered at Bodie. "You berk," he said. "Don't do that." He pushed his hair back and tucked his Browning under his arm and was himself again.

Cowley was looking pleased over several crates of Armalites and called Doyle over for a preliminary briefing of events.

Bodie was in the process of picking up the pieces of wood and self when Doyle appeared once more at his side. He pushed at Bodie's shoulder with his fist. "Gotta be more careful, mate. I'd like to keep you in one piece."

 

* * *

 

With Ann he had done everything right and yet everything still had gone wrong. Doyle was beginning to think he wasn't meant to love. Not and keep them. He really had loved her, he had. He'd loved her with all the passion he could muster, like a fiery star and like a star he knew someday it would go nova and die. He hadn't expected circumstances to kill it prematurely, but he should have. It left him a burnt-out husk, cold and black and just as alone as before.

Ray stood and watched her go and knew he had no right follow.

The first time Bodie tried to touch him, he threw him off, unable to bear any kind of human contact. The second time he encouraged it, needing the reminder of life on this planet. "Stay with me?" he asked without asking. And Bodie did.

Ann may have been a star, but Bodie was his sun.

 

* * *

 

A passionate man at all times, Doyle was a destructive bastard when he was angry and when he didn't have the option of action to take it out on, he vented that fierce energy on things. Testimony stood in his collection of mismatched plates and far too many bent-covered books. A punching bag, a karate stand, a hapless wall. Usually he slammed the flippers on the pinball machine until he wound down. Bodie'd never come close to his top score. This time no silver ball would distract him.

"You bastard! You bloody fucking bastard!"

Bodie raised both arms to fend off blows, but Ray's voice sidestepped them and battered at his ears. When he felt nothing hit, he lowered them again and was instead struck still by a pair of very angry eyes inches from his face.

"Don't do that to me, don't ever let me think you're dead."

"Was just a joke, what do you need to go reacting like this for?"

Doyle gave up trying to hold himself in. "Because I need you, you gormless moron!" burst out of him like high-powered bullets.

That was Doyle, get him angry enough and he'd yell out whatever was on his mind. It was the best way Bodie knew of finding out what was going on in those twisty passages. Alcohol worked too, of a sort. He'd got Ray drunk once, just enough to loosen that tongue, and goaded him until he was treated to a full two hours of city dirt. Two hours he's wished back since. At least in the jungle you expected that kind of rot; in the jungle, people wore their filth on the outside. He won't belittle Doyle's urban wasteland again. He'll never forget the way Doyle's voice had started out in familiar anger, loud and expressive, but devolved into the quiet despair that haunted his empty nights.

He's been silent for too long.

Back in the here and now, Doyle was making tea with jerky movements that caused boiling water to splash from the kettle onto counter and hand. He swore with impunity.

A mug slopped down in front of Bodie.

"Two sugars, no milk." Doyle dropped into the sofa with his own mug and started flipping through a magazine backwards.

"Doyle, I --"

"Fuck off and drink your tea."

 

* * *

 

There were few stars in the London sky; too many lights. Night wasn't black so much as a darker shade of grey; at times it seemed like his whole life was in tones of grey.

From his bed, Doyle could see the window and through it he could see nothing worth looking at.

Beside him Bodie was another pallid lump, an amorphous mass of shadows and audible breathing. He reached out and rubbed Bodie's shoulder, just over the scar without a story. The feel of skin and Bodie's ever-present warmth anchored him in this dark cocoon.

"Mmf, Ray?" Bodie raised his head bare inches from the pillow and gazed unfocused at the hand. "Wassit?"

For a moment he paused and thought words of untenable color.

"Shh, nothing. It's nothing."

He lay back against the cool pillows and stared at the ceiling until he could see his past and future in the cracks. Then he rolled over and fitted himself to his partner's side and sighed. A rough hand cradled the sharp jut of his hip and he slept at last.


End file.
